


Wheel of Westeros Book Four: Rise of Sansa Part One

by annmcbee



Series: Wheel of Westeros [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 06:21:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20670743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annmcbee/pseuds/annmcbee
Summary: A lady in disguise, on the run for a murder she didn't commit, reflects on the consequences of a marriage that will secure her power over a large kingdom...or someone's power. A lord on the run for the same murder finds himself addressing the dragon queen, who is gathering allies for further conquest of at least one realm.





	Wheel of Westeros Book Four: Rise of Sansa Part One

** _The Wheel of Westeros_ **

**Book Four: Rise of Sansa Part One**

_Disclaimer:_

_This fan fiction is meant neither to be a continuation of George R. R. Martin’s _A Song of Ice and_ Fire series, nor a revision of seasons 6-8 of the HBO series, _Game of Thrones_. It is meant to stand alone, independent of those works, and can be read alone by those who have not seen the TV series or read the books. Having said that, this work will borrow from not only _Game of Thrones_ and _A Song of Ice and Fire, _but from multiple other works of film, television, music and literature. Please see footnotes for references, and feel free to point out any I’ve forgotten._

Chapter 1: Sansa/Alayne

Alayne Stone’s wedding to Harrold Hardyng wasn’t going to be what she had hoped. Sure, there would be a grand feast with pigeon pie, pear tarts, green bean salad, honeyed chicken wings, boiled goose eggs, and a nice thick seafood stew with crabs, mussels and whitefish. The cake was to be an enormous seven-tiered lemon cake frosted with buttercream, studded with dried blueberries and decked with singed lemon slices and springs of rosemary. Her gown was the palest pearl-grey silk and brocade with a train twenty feet long that sparkled with flying bird patterns in oat pearls and silver thread. The neck was lined with dove feathers that tickled her chin, and from the sleeves flowed long trains of delicate lace that would trail behind her like wings when she walked. Her veil of Lysene lace hung from a beautiful white headdress that covered her hair and ears. The headdress was decorated with opal, white quartz and little birds made out of blown glass. The feathers at the top were a mixture of duck down and swan feathers as soft and light as mist. She had to admit it was fine treatment for a bastard, but again, that’s what she was, and would be for who knows how long at this point.

She was supposed to appear to the ceremony in a maiden’s cloak of white and grey with the sigil of the direwolf emblazoned in blue and silver thread on the back. She would remove her hood to reveal her true hair color, a rich auburn red that shone in the light like polished copper, and those who had gathered in support of Harrold would know her real identity.[1] She was not Alayne Stone, bastard daughter of Petyr Baelish, Lord Protector of the Vale. She was Sansa Stark, daughter of Eddard Stark and heir to Winterfell and the North. But so much had gone wrong, and now the lovely picture Petyr had painted of her wedding had faded away.

Her marriage to Tyrion Lannister, younger brother of Queen Cersei who had been accused of murdering her son King Joffrey, had dissolved but with rather messy circumstances. Ideally, according to Petyr, some lucky bounty hunter would deliver Tyrion’s severed head to Cersei to collect the reward, making Sansa a widow. Actually, Tyrion had been very kind to Sansa during their short marriage. He had left her still a virgin for one thing. But he had also tried to comfort her as well as he could, after her mother and brother’s murder, and again after the deaths of her little brothers Bran and Rickon. He had offered to get her out of her engagement to Joffrey, and probably would have if Margaery Tyrell hadn’t stepped in and taken care of the issue.

Tyrion didn’t kill Joffrey …Sansa knew that for a fact. For that reason, Sansa was somewhat glad that he hadn’t gotten his head chopped off by some cretin in exchange for gold. He was hideous, a dwarf with a scar over one eye and half a nose from a sword wound in battle, but he didn’t deserve that. True, he had killed his own father. But this was the same man who had forced their marriage to begin with, and who had arranged for her brother Robb and her mother Catlyn to be killed. So Tywin Lannister could rot for all Sansa cared. In the end, Petyr had gotten word that Tyrion had died in Essos while fighting with the Second Sons in the city of Yunkai for Daenerys Targaryen, the daughter of the Mad King who still lived, and according to the letter, was ruling and trying to end slavery there.

Harrold hadn’t believed it, and would have refused the match, until Petyr determined to tell him who “Alayne” really was. Suddenly a marriage didn’t sound like a bad idea to Lord Waynwood’s ward, and though he’d behaved in a rather beastly manner toward her previously, he now showered Sansa daily with gifts of poetry and flowers. Gillyflower and goldencup and lady’s lace and lavender, day after day tied together with string and accompanied by verses like_…__as an unperfect actor on the stage, who with his fear is put besides his part, or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart, so I, for fear of trust, forget to say the perfect ceremony of love's rite, and in mine own love's strength seem to decay, o'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.**[2]** _It was lovely, but Sansa doubted he actually wrote it himself.

The next obstacle to the perfect wedding, and regaining her own identity, was her cousin Robert Arryn, Lord of the Vale and a boy of nine. Petyr had explained how Harrold would actually inherit the Vale after little Sweetrobin passed, which was to be any day now, as he suffered from a shaking sickness, and had always been frail and sickly besides. But the boy had gotten a little stronger since they descended from his family’s castle the Eyrie and settled into the Gates of the Moon where the Royces were hosting them for the winter. The weather was more temperate, and Petyr’s obvious efforts to wear the boy out seemed to be having the opposite effect. He’d been forcing the boy to practice with a sword every day, and though the child could barely lift a sword much less swing it, the exercise had actually begun to put some color in his little cheeks. Sansa had tried not to think about the fact that they were waiting for Robert to die, but Petyr was getting desperate, and had starting recruiting her help in the ugliness.

It was bad enough that he had dragged her into Joffrey’s murder. She had figured it out slowly over the weeks they had spent together. Petyr paid a drunken fool to gift her a pretty, gem-bedecked hairnet, which she wore to Joffrey’s wedding. Then Margaery’s grandmother Olenna must have plucked the poison jewel out of it when she was talking to her…she did remember the old lady fiddling with her hair. The Petyr shot the fool with an arrow right in front of her as they were escaping King’s Landing in the aftermath. After that, he had made her complicit in her Aunt Lysa Arryn’s murder at the Eyrie, pushing Lysa through the “Moon Door,” a trap door in the castle thousands of feet up from certain death, then bribing a singer to take the blame, who was later executed. True, the obviously touched Lysa had tried to push Sansa through the Moon Door first, accusing her of stealing Petyr away. But Sansa never asked for her to be murdered. Now she was linked to four people dying…and Petyr wanted her to actively aid in a fifth. It was exasperating.

“You’ve got to get it through your thick head Petyr,” she said to him when they had discussed it in his chamber. “I may be a stupid girl with stupid dreams but I am not a killer!”

“You don’t have to run him through with a sword or any such thing…”

“Why thank you… that takes the pressure off completely!”

“He’s frail and sick. He has a bad heart. All you need do is gesticulate wildly when you talk to him like so…GOOD MORNING SWEETROBIN HOW ARE YOU MY LORD…”

He had waved his hands over her head as he demonstrated, making Sansa roll her eyes.

“For the sake of all the gods…stop!”[3]

So months later, little Robert hung on. Then one day, Cersei Lannister went ahead and blew up the Sept of Baelor with a wildfire cache left most likely by Mad King Aerys. Of course, Cersei blamed Stannis Baratheon, who had been fighting for the throne since his brother had died and who worshiped the Red God over the Seven. Stannis claimed, probably rightly, that Cersei’s children were not Robert’s but her own brother’s, making Stannis the true heir. But no one really wanted that stuffy old heretic on the throne. Cersei, however, had done herself in with this little stunt, and now there was another contender, one much more palatable than Stannis. A young lad had arrived from Essos, claiming to be Aegon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar and the true heir. Some said he was a pretender of course, but whoever he was, he was rumored to be brave and noble, and devastatingly handsome besides.

Cersei’s youngest son Tommen had thrown himself out of a window following the destruction of the Sept and the death of his queen, so now Cersei would undoubtedly try to place her daughter Myrcella on the throne. She was hastily digging her own grave…too hastily. Getting Cersei out of the way was important, for she blamed Sansa for Joffrey still. But for things to work, Tyrion and little Robert needed to be out of the way first. But Cersei had accelerated the process with her lunacy, and young Aegon, or Griff as they called him, had complicated it.

So she would marry Harrold, but she would need to be Alayne for a bit longer. _Fear not my child_, Petyr had told her. _Every trial brings you closer to vengeance for your family. Closer to being what you were meant to be. _And what was that? Lady of the Vale and the North, to be sure. But that wasn’t all…it couldn’t be. Sansa remembered the day she had been engaged to Joffrey and how thrilled she had been. She would be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, beautiful and adored. When he turned out to be a vicious monster and a coward who enjoyed beating her and humiliating her in front of the entire court, she had prayed instead for his death. Still, when he set her aside for Margaery, even in her profound relief, there was a sense of betrayal. It was if the gods, or the Lannisters, or someone had stolen something from her. Something she was always meant to have. Something she had dreamt of from the day she could speak.

Chapter 2: Tyrion

The audience chamber of Queen Daenerys Targaryen was a full house. It wasn’t as opulent as Tyrion had expected…aside from the grand marble staircase and giant marble pillars whose construction must have taken the work of a million slaves in the time of Mereen’s founding, there was little in the way of grandeur. There wasn’t even a throne for the queen to sit on…just a pedestal with arm rests and a silk pillow to cushion her seat…whenever she decided to appear. Awaiting her grace were a number of curious characters, most of whom were unknown to Tyrion, with the exception of a huge imposing man in full armor emblazoned with the sigil of the kraken…a Greyjoy, most likely Victarion…and with him: Moqorro, the dark priest of R’hllor. Others were there representing the Red God as well, though Tyrion was unacquainted with the red-gowned women who had greeted Moqorro with _Valar Morghulis_, him nodding and answering _Valar Dohaeris_ as was the custom.

Accompanying Tyrion were Jorah Mormont, the banished son of Jeor Mormont of Bear Island, and Ben Plumm, a captain in the sellsword army of the Second Sons. All three of them risked losing their heads that day, but the reward would be worth it if it came. Jorah had served as the Queen’s advisor until she discovered he had originally been sent to spy on her by King Robert who wanted her dead, after which she banished him under threat of execution. This was despite the fact that he had long abandoned his loyalty to Robert, even before Robert’s death, and was obviously madly in love with Daenerys. Plumm too had turned his cloak, but revealed himself to be a double agent, gaining the trust of the Yunkish army before ambushing them utilizing a plan that Tyrion had helped design. And then there was Tyrion himself. Tyrion Lannister, son of Tywin, who had arranged for the murder of Daenerys’s brother’s wife and children to gain Robert’s loyalty. Tyrion whose sister now held the kingdom, which had once been Daenerys’s father’s, in thrall. He only hoped that his help with the war against Yunkai would be enough to keep her from burning him alive, and if not that, he also had a plan for dealing with the current problem of the bloody flux that was still ravaging her city.

At long last, the Queen’s tiny advisor, Missandei of Naath, a girl of twelve with honey-colored skin and dark hair braided in ropes encircling her crown, stepped out from behind the curtains that hung behind the pedestal. She wore a sleeveless gown of black silk cinched at the waist with a tight cummerbund embroidered with the three-headed dragon in red and gold. A dozen gold bracelets ran from wrist to armpit on each of her arms. She spoke in a voice that belied her tender age and diminutive size.

“Please stand for the arrival of her grace Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of Mereen and Queen regent of Yunkai, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains…”

As Missandei rolled out these titles, two Dothraki captains appeared, curved arakhs in hand, along with Grey Worm, captain of the Unsullied, Daenerys’s army of eunuchs. Then Tyrion thought he saw the shadow of a dragon, with its long horned neck and spiked snout, stretch out over the top of the stairs. His heart skipped a beat, as it had done when he first laid eyes on the three nearly full-grown dragons that had burned the masters of Yunkai out of their lordly estates. But instead of a gigantic dragon, emerging finally beneath the shadow was a woman, not in truth much larger than Missandei.[4]

She wore a gown of black silk, split down the sides in such a way as to reveal the curves of her body, the splits being held together with shiny metal rods that sunk into her flesh just a little. The sleeves of the gown were coils of silk lined with gold thread that gave the impression of black flames engulfing her arms. Two-inch spiked tips of black metal donned each of the queen’s fingers, and the same metal that held together the gown rose in sharp spikes from its collar. Long trails of airy red lace hung from the spikes, flowing down from her shoulders like lacewings of blood. Her face was painted silvery-white with crimson swathes on each cheek. Her eyelids were painted greasy black at the lashes in stripes drawn all the way to the temples, and rose-gold dust shone beneath her brows, making the purple of her eyes seem to glow. Atop her head sat a massive headdress in the fashion of a dragon’s mane, complete with scales of abalone, mother-of-pearl, onyx, malachite and ruby, and horns that may have been made of seashell or wood and painted black. Strings of beads made out of pearl and obsidian hung from the sides of the headdress down below the queen’s delicate chin. Her lips were painted the color of ox blood. Accompanying her was an older woman, probably Dothraki, who wore a close-fitting gown of black boiled leather, the sleeve material cut in pieces like dragon scales, with black fins at the shoulders. Her hair was coiled atop her head and pinned with a barrette made of tiny skulls – lizard perhaps, or cat, and her eyelids were greased black as well. As the queen sat upon her pedestal, the entire audience chamber might have collectively swallowed. One couldn’t help but kneel, so they did.

“Rise friends…and others,” she said in a voice that was silken but deeper than expected. “I am grateful for your patience, and will address each of you in turn.”

Her darkened gaze fell now upon Jorah Mormont, unsurprisingly.

“Jorah the Andal, Ben Plumm has spoken for you following his own grievous betrayal, and since I have decided to absolve his error in the wake of my victory, which he did help secure, I am willing as well to hear you, who served as a spy for the usurper in his efforts to assassinate me. So tell me…why should I not feed you to my dragons at the earliest convenience?”

Jorah was a large, barrel-chested man covered in hair (except for the top of his head) who normally made an imposing figure, but at the moment he looked like a dog who had been severely beaten for shitting on the rug and had just been caught doing it a second time. He crossed his hands in front of him as if about to pray, and approached the foot of the stairs slowly. The eyes of the highly armed Dothraki and Unsullied guards that lined the path up followed him every inch. When he reached the foot of her seat, he fell to his knees.

“Your grace,” Jorah said, his voice already breaking. “I remain your servant. You have my everlasting and unquestioning loyalty, my unwavering love and devotion, until the day of my death. I swear with my life, and as a token, I have secured a valuable gift in hopes of making amends so that I may once again serve as your protector and advisor.”

“A gift you say,” Daenerys said, nodding toward Tyrion. “And by this you mean the man who appears with you today…come forward my lord.”

Tyrion did as instructed, noting that she had said “man” not “dwarf.” He had grown used to people referring to him as something not quite human. He bowed again as he approached, his mouth feeling suddenly dry. He heard, just barely, a low sniggering behind him that he determined came from the Greyjoy lord, though he decided to ignore it.

“A pleasure to meet you, your grace, and yes, I am the gift. My name is…”

“I know who you are, Tyrion of House Lannister. I know that your family holds my family’s kingdom in tyranny. I know your brother murdered my father, and that your father ordered the murder of my niece and nephew in service of the usurper…but I have also heard you murdered your father, as well as the usurper’s son, your own nephew. I know therefore that you are a kinslayer, and yet your kin is my enemy. You see my conundrum I’m sure.”

“Indeed, my queen. Far from your only predicament…I would understand, given the complexity of your situation, if you were to tie me to the nearest spit. No one would miss me, as I have reported to all concerned in Westeros that I have died in your service, mainly to deny my sister to opportunity to collect my head. Killing me certainly would be a simple solution…”

“Unlike the one you created in answer to our conflict with Yunkai, which I believe to be responsible for bringing the city to heel.”

“That and a certain trio of dragons and the brave mother who wielded their fire.”

“I am in debt to you, Lord Tyrion. That is without doubt. However, given your familial connection to Cersei Lannister, you understand if I remain suspicious. I have of late learned to take more care in whom I trust.”

“Exchange the words ‘familial connection to’ with ‘white-hot hatred of,’ and the statement rings more true. A man who despises his own sister is of dubious integrity I suppose, but I assure you that one can’t possibly wish more for the death of Cersei than I.”

“I’m not so sure, but the fact is I am in need of the sort of mind you’ve been proven to possess. As many of such minds as I can get in fact.”

The queen paused and looked again upon Jorah Mormont, then rose and beckoned him with a single claw to stand on his feet.

“For that matter, I will entertain your advice on the problem of the plague, Lord Tyrion. Should it be useful, I may permit you to live…even employ your service in other endeavors, as I am nothing if not merciful. And…I am willing to allow you back into my service Jorah the Andal.”

Jorah knelt again and kissed the edge of her gown. When he was again upright, she clasped his chin in her hand, the sharp nail tips digging into his cheek.

“But if you betray me again,” she said. “I will watch you burn.”

Before she took her seat again, she told Jorah and Tyrion to remain while she addressed the others. “I have other business to discuss with you, but for now, step forward lord sailor, for if you meant to ensnare my attention, you have done so.”

She addressed the Greyjoy lord, who stepped forward with Moqorro in tow. The arms of Victarion’s gold cloak hung down to the floor, burying one hand while the other clutched his kraken-shaped helm. His long black hair was flecked with gray and hung over his empty eyes. Moqorro was a striking figure as usual. His ebony face was tattooed with orange and yellow flames that stood brightly against his mane of snow-white hair. His red robe looked tattered and stained.

“My name is Victarion of House Greyjoy. I am brother to Balon Greyjoy, King of the Iron Islands, recently deceased. My companion is Moqorro, red priest of Rh’llor.”

“King of the Iron Islands. Meaning your brother stood in open rebellion against the crown of Westeros. And recently deceased, which I take to mean this rebellion failed as did numerous previous Greyjoy rebellions according to my knowledge. Correct?”

“His rebellion didn’t fail so much as he was thrown to his death by my brother Euron, who sits now in the Seastone chair. A kinslayer and usurper. And his plan is not so much to rebel as to conquer. You see, your grace, Euron intends to take the Seven Kingdoms for himself.”

This was the first Tyrion had heard of Euron’s intentions. Tywin’s death had certainly brought on an even greater slew of contenders that there already had been. Who next? Robert Arryn? Prince Doran? Jon the Black Bastard of the Wall? His wolf may as well give it a try, too.

“Is that so? And how is it that his own brother comes across the sea to convey this knowledge to one who would potentially oppose him?”

“Euron hopes you won’t oppose him. He hopes you’ll marry him.”

“And why would I do that.”

“He figures you need ships if you are to take your father’s kingdom back, and the Iron Fleet is the greatest fleet in the entire world.”

“But he sent you to make the offer, is that correct?”

“That’s right. But…you’d be a fool to take it.”

“I’m capable of determining that without your input, my lord. Having said that, why did you come all this way to make Euron’s offer if you don’t recommend I entertain that offer? It sounds to me as if the fool is you.”

“I am a fool, my queen. That’s so. A fool to think I could face your beauty and engage you to marry a madman. I didn’t believe Euron when he said no lovelier woman ever existed…he does rave on when he is deep into the shade of the evening. But clearly he had it right after all…”

“You might get to the point, Lord Greyjoy. The day is only so long and I have much more to concern myself with than this rather conspicuous flattery.”

“Oh I never flatter, my queen. As you say, a waste of precious time. And yet, you do need a strong fleet if you are to cross the Narrow Sea and take the Iron Throne.”

“If I decide to do so. You see, Lord Victarion, I have recently been witness to some rather miraculous events which have made me question whether my destiny truly lies across the sea. Perhaps you have heard of my efforts to end slavery in the free cities I have conquered. As it turns out, this process is rather time consuming. It also seems that while slavery has halted in my cities, it continues in the other so-called ‘free’ cities, much to my disapproval. Tell me, my lord, how can I call myself a liberator, when so many remain in chains only miles from where I sit?”

“Slavery is a lucrative trade, my queen, it’s so…”

“And you should know, yes? The name Greyjoy is not unknown to me sir…and I have heard your ships have in fact carried slaves…that is correct, isn’t it?”

“Never to Mereen, my illustrious queen! I would never defy your rule. In fact, I would be willing to end any involvement in slaving altogether…for a price.”

“I feel as if you are finally about to explain what you are doing here.”

“I too have access to the Iron Fleet. I too can get you those ships if you desire them. And I will never again transport a single slave on any of them. Make me your king, Daenerys Stormborn, and together we can kill every slaver from Qarth to Lys. To the Others with the Seven Kingdoms. Euron can have them, while you and I rule the whole of Essos together. I prefer the climate here anyway.”

Whispers hung in the room for a moment. Daenerys seemed not to react at all, other than to whisper into the older Dothraki woman’s ear, after which the woman disappeared behind the curtain. Tyrion desperately wanted to protest, thinking of young Griff, or rather Aegon Targaryen, whom he had met briefly before being kidnapped by Jorah. Not only was he the true prince, he was a good, if somewhat naïve lad in need of a strong, not-so-naïve queen, and much more deserving than this brute of a Greyjoy. For the time being, Tyrion held his tongue.

“Moqorro, red priest of Rh’llor,” Daenerys said. “What make you of this brazen offer? How do you come to be in the service of Lord Greyjoy?”

“I am your humble servant, your grace,” Moqorro said, bowing. “By chance, Prince Victarion saved me from almost certain death upon the seas. I am here to advise him.”

“And did you advise this rather presumptuous proposal?”

“I counseled only that you were a powerful and majestic queen, destined to the greatness your name assumes. Should you enter into an alliance with my prince, my services will be yours as well. The Lord of Light has given me the gift of sight, among others.”

“An alliance of marriage you’re implying…I don’t suppose I will get access to the fleet without that…” Daenerys paused and looked past the two men to the three red priestesses that stood a few feet behind them. “Perhaps I should consult the other representatives of the Red God I see today. Priestesses of Rh’llor step forward.”

The three red priestesses obeyed, bowing at the foot of the stairs with their hands folded in front of them. All three wore the signature red gowns and ruby choker of all servants of the god Rh’llor, with differences reflective of the region from which they had come. One clearly came from the Summer Isles, with her ebony dark skin that shone like obsidian. A parrot sat upon her shoulder, and her gown was bedecked with bright red and pink feathers. Another may have come from Lys, having silvery blond hair and violet eyes. Her gown was mostly lace, and revealed the entirely of her shapely legs as well as the space between her breasts all the way down to her navel. The priestess who stood foremost was harder to place. She had fair skin and thick wavy auburn hair that hung over her bared shoulders, and the sleeves of her gown hung down to the floor.

“It is you who have been spreading the word of my rule throughout Essos,” Daenerys said. “I am deeply grateful for the followers who have heeded to your speeches on the streets and markets. One might pay handsomely for the public image you have created for me. Pray tell, who are you ladies, and how might I reward you for your efforts?”

The auburn-haired priestess spoke with a smile. “No reward is needed, my queen, for we are no ladies, but servants of the Lord of Light. It is his word we spread to the masses…that you are one who was promised. I am Kinvara, high priestess of the Red Temple of Braavos, and these are my compatriots in service, Larra of Lys, and Yaya of Momburu.”

“You speak of the prophecy…the ‘prince who was promised will bring the dawn.’ My advisor, a master of nineteen languages, tells me the more accurate translation does not determine gender, and so it is the ‘prince or princess’ who was promised. It doesn’t roll off the tongue, but I do like it better indeed.”[5]

Kinvara nodded, and Moqorro spoke up. “The Lord of Light has spoken to me of this same prophecy, great queen, but in my hearing it was the ‘prince _and_ princess’ who will bring the dawn.”

“And I suppose you believe Lord Greyjoy to be the prince to my princess, is that so?” Daenerys asked.

“I have yet to consult the flames in this matter, your grace…”

Tyrion couldn’t contain his agitation at this possibility. He shifted his weight and probably rolled his eyes. The queen took notice, and before he could prevent it, made eye contact with him. As she did, the Dothraki woman reappeared and handed Daenerys a tightly rolled scroll about the width of a long letter. As she directed her attention to Tyrion, she ran the scroll beneath her nose and then began to twirl it in her claw playfully.

“Lord Tyrion, why look you so perturbed? Are you offended by the presence of these representatives of the Red God? I didn’t take you for a religious man.”

“My apologies, your grace,” Tyrion replied. “I have no objections whatsoever to these wise clerics. My reservations are of small concern I’m sure…”

Victarion must have suspected these reservations were about him, for he snarled, “Then why are you talking, dwarf? You’re the smallest concern here. We don’t even let your kind live in the Iron Islands, you know. We kill you at birth…a mercy for the parents that…”[6]

“Hold your tongue, Lord Greyjoy,” Daenerys snapped, pointing the scroll at him menacingly. “You will speak when called upon and at no other time. In fact, I’d see you and your advisor dismissed for now. I will take your proposal under advisement, and as long as you do not further displease me, you may stay on as a guest in the great pyramid.”

She made some orders in Dothraki, at which time two of them directed Victarion and Moqorro out. Victarion made a grand bow before he left, and Tyrion spied his hidden hand. It was wrapped in bandages, the pus clearly seeping through. Tyrion thought he could smell it.[7]

“Now then please continue Kinvara of Braavos. What would you ask of me in recognition of the favors you have done my reign?”

“My companions wished only for the privilege of laying eyes on the one whose dragons will cleanse this world. I, however, would ask to remain as your spiritual advisor during the great war that lies ahead,” Kinvara said.

“It is true that my task is great, priestess. However, I already currently employ a spiritual advisor… Maebi of the Dothraki, whom you see beside me. I can appreciate the Lord of Light and his gifts, but I cannot say I am certain of what he wants of me.”

“That is where I can help you my queen. Though I would never interfere with or derail the council of a true and capable priestess of the Great Stallion, I’m afraid the Lord’s mission for you is not in conquering Essos and breaking the chains of its slaves. The war of which I speak is between life and death, light and dark. If that war is lost, we will all become slaves in death to the Others.”

“The Others. You speak of the legends of the North. The White Walkers and their army of wights…”

“You are wise, my queen.”

Daenerys again whispered to Maebi, who once again disappeared behind the curtain. The queen tapped the scroll against her armrest thoughtfully. Tyrion made an effort not to show his confusion and impatience. It seemed out of place to be discussing grumpkins and snarks with a queen of Daenerys’s magnitude.

“You,” she said. “You are a maester of the Citadel of Oldtown in Westeros are you not?”

She addressed the figure of a large, thick-necked maester in the far corner with a crooked nose that had quite an amount of gray hair growing from it. Tyrion couldn’t believe he hadn’t recognized the “mastiff” as he was called.

“I am archmaester Marwyn, your grace. Of the citadel indeed…”

Daenerys suddenly sat up straight, her eyes darkening. She squeezed the scroll in her hand tightly.

“My wish is also to advise you, for the war of which the red witch speaks is upon us. I bring a great wealth of ancient knowledge that I hope to be of assistance to the Mother of Dragons in this great matter,” Marwyn continued.

As he spoke, Daenerys rose and began to descend the steps as if to get a better look at the man. When she stood but a few feet from his strong-jawed face, she spoke in a particularly low, almost menacing tone.

“As you assisted Mirri Maz Duur, the witch who murdered my first husband and only child? Tell me, was it your wealth of knowledge that equipped this wretched woman with the ability to destroy my family and make me barren?”

Tyrion’s jaw dropped. Barren? Since when? He thought again of young Griff/Aegon. The poor boy was to have numerous rude awakenings it would seem.

Marwyn looked taken aback, but replied, “To my deepest regret, your grace, I suppose that is so, though it wasn’t my intention. And yet…even the darkest of tragedies can serve a larger purpose.”

“Perhaps. I burned Mirri Maz Duur alive in the pyre with my husband’s body. From that pyre my dragons were born. A larger purpose indeed. Perhaps an even greater purpose might be served by burning you living as well.”

“That may be, your grace. But I believe you will not regret your mercy in my case. There is much to learn if you are to serve your greater purpose, about which the red priestess and I are in some agreement. You may find the prophecy more complicated than even Moqorro implied. One must always treat prophecy with caution, as I would treat any spell from Duur that would claim to make you barren.”

Kinvara spoke up as well. “The maester speaks truthfully, my queen, if I may. Although in the case of your fecundity it may be just as well. Bearing his child would be perilous.”

“Whose child? Not this Greyjoy prince…”

“The child of the prince who was promised. Whoever that may be,” Kinvara said.

Daenerys looked at Marwyn, then Kinvara, then Marwyn again. Maebi reappeared and descended the steps to hand her another scroll, this one smaller, as like a raven would deliver. She tucked this behind her ear.

“I admit your propositions have piqued my interest. Enough to allow your continued counsel, priestess. And to allow your continued breathing, maester. I will furnish your lodging in the great pyramid, both…and I will consult you in the matter of the Others as I deem necessary.”

She gave the larger scroll to Missandei to hold and took the smaller from behind her ear.  
“As it so happens,” she said. “I have received this raven scroll from the Wall sent by its Lord Commander, Jon Snow, formerly of Winterfell. I have no great reverence to his father, Eddard Stark, who assisted in the destruction of my family. Therefore, I hesitate to respond hastily to his rather ineloquent but genuine plea for help with the army of dead men and White Walkers that he claims now marches on Westeros. I would learn more before proceeding, and so your arrival is timely indeed.”

Tyrion knew Jon Snow, and he realized with some gratification he might be the only one in the queen’s service who could speak to his character.

“I humbly accept your employment, your grace, and thank you heartily for your mercy. Perhaps in time I can repair the damage my educating of the witch has caused,” Marwyn said with a bow. He and the red priestesses were escorted out as Victarion had been, and when they had gone, Daenerys turned to her three reformed traitors.

“Ben Plumm, Lord Tyrion, Jorah…please follow me to the adjoining chamber. There is something I would discuss with you.”

Then as she walked away with her back to them, her tiny advisor alongside her, Tyrion saw that her gown was completely open in the back, revealing her naked from the neck to the tailbone. He swallowed a gasp. The skin of her back was deeply marked with angry purple scars, long and winding and numerous as the branches of some terrible tree.[8]

Chapter Three: Sansa

Sweetrobin’s chamber window was open again. Sansa had ducked in to check on him and found the room freezing and the boy’s covers pulled way down to his knees. He had developed a slight chest cold in the past couple of weeks. When he had finished his exercises earlier that afternoon, his breathing had come out wet and crackly, and he had coughed up a sizable glob of phlegm the color of pease porridge. Sansa muttered a curse and ran to his bed, pulling the covers up and tucking them under his chin, then running to the window, shuttering it tight and locking it, as should have been in the first place. This was the fifth time she’d had to close his window hanging wide open while the winter howled outside. Someone kept opening it, but no one would own up to doing so.

Maddy was waiting outside with the clean linens.

“What do you mean leaving Robert’s window wide open in this weather?” Sansa demanded.

Maddy blinked her shifty blue eyes and her chubby cheeks reddened. “Oh no m’lady! I would never…I sent Gretchel to make sure…and…oh I guess I should have known better.”

“I guess you should have!” [9] Gretchel was an absolute disaster lately. Sansa suspected Maddy knew what was going on with her, though in a rare show of being tight-lipped, she hadn’t said anything yet. But Sansa would get her to spill the beans soon enough.

“Nevermind,” Sansa said. “Let’s just get those on my bed first so I can show you how to do it _properly_…”

Sansa was keeping the maids occupied while Randa prepared her evening tea. Myranda Royce’s room was just down the corridor from Sansa and Harrold’s, and she was perfectly delighted to keep her own private kettle to heat in her own fire whenever she liked. For Sansa, that meant she was only a few steps from a cup of moon tea the moment she needed it. Both Randa and Mya Stone, bastard daughter of the late King Robert who also lodged at the Gates, were able to procure the concoction discreetly and without a fuss. True, before the day she left Winterfell, Sansa would have been horrified at the thought of willingly drinking the foul-tasting tea that could terminate oncoming pregnancy. Only whores and wicked, wanton women would do such a thing. But that was then. Now she thanked the Gods such an option existed. Queen Margaery used it from time to time after all, and no matter what horrible things had been said about her before she died, she was the sort of queen Sansa could only dream of being.

At first, Sansa had appealed to Mya in secret, becoming well-acquainted despite her own inclinations with Mya’s friendly-but-smelly mules, and making excuses to go out to the stables to pet them or feed them handfuls of oats. Mya still believed her to be Alayne, a bastard, and therefore trusted her more than she seemed to trust other nobles. She could get the roots and leaves for Sansa/Alayne…all Sansa had to do was boil them in water and drink. The first time she’d tried it, she could barely get it down. It tasted like bad apples and hot soot, and smelled like burning treebark. The next day she felt crampy and then got her moon blood along with some rather embarrassing diarrhea. But she and Mya weren’t always able to meet and make the exchange when it was needed, which had been vexing, because it was needed nearly all the time. Harrold never got bored of sex.

Sansa’s wedding night hadn’t been so bad. She had been pampered and attended to all day by her maids and the women of the court. She had eaten three pieces of cake and gotten a little drunk. In the bed chamber, she had been nervous, but not so mortified as she was at her wedding to Lord Tyrion. When she took off her dress and her small clothes and stood naked before him, Harrold acted as if she was the Maiden herself in human form. _I knew you would be beautiful, but I couldn’t have dreamed this_…he had said with wide sparkling eyes before ripping his own clothes off and throwing himself upon her. It was nice to be complimented so. Harrold was no troll either. His body was full of lean muscle that rippled ever so slightly when he moved. His butt and belly were so firm one might bounce a pebble off them. He had no hair anywhere except his lower arms and legs…and head of course. His hair was sandy blonde, and his eyes were a brilliant blue. When he smiled, dimples appeared on his cheeks and his teeth shone. Even his member was somewhat pretty. Tyrion’s had looked like some kind of purple mushroom with veins. Harrold’s was smooth, the same color as the rest of him, and when it stood up had a smooth shiny head that reminded Sansa of her father’s men’s helmets.

Harrold’s hands were very gentle and his kisses had felt rather delightful on her skin. He kissed her everywhere…and that meant _everywhere_. Sansa would have giggled if her heart hadn’t been beating so violently. Her mother had told her that it was all right to be afraid, and that her husband would likely be more afraid than she was. Well, that wasn’t true – Harrold had no fear whatsoever. Without a moment’s hesitation, he spat a good amount of saliva into his fingers and then very gently rubbed between her legs, then a little more firmly, until Sansa felt a shivering sensation and her legs became restless and wanted to open. It had hurt a little, just as her mother had warned, but Harrold had gone out of his way not to make it too painful, even bringing her a warm wet rag when it was all done. The next night had hurt worse, but then the third not so much. By the fourth night, it hardly hurt at all, but Sansa had yet to experience what Randa called the “bellringer” and what her mother had referred to as “just a wonderful warm tingle that happens every so often.”

When seeking the moon tea, Sansa had gone to Mya out of some distrust of Randa, about whom Petyr had warned her. But it wasn’t long before she realized that Randa had occasionally been slipping her whatever moon tea is made from anyway. At some point, she recalled the next morning after her wedding night, when Randa had brought her some toast and jam that Sansa thought tasted off. Then she’d had the diarrhea, which she attributed to the wedding food. But it had to have been _that_…the question was why. Finally, Sansa had gone to Randa and tearfully asked Randa to help her, pretending she hadn’t already enlisted Mya. Just as Sansa predicted, Randa was overly sympathetic and agreed to help her out without so much as a question. Now she had both Randa and Mya as sources, though neither knew about the other. She knew that whatever Randa knew, the Royces would know, and if not, then Petyr knew. So Petyr must approve of, even insist on, Sansa avoiding pregnancy. But wouldn’t a baby cement her hold on the Vale? What could Petyr be up to? It made little sense in the same way betraying the Lannisters had made little sense. They gave him lands and titles, sat him on the Small Council. When Sansa questioned him, Petyr had said, _A man with no motive is a man no one suspects. Always keep your foes confused. If they don’t know who you are, or what you want, they can’t know what you plan to do next_…[10]

Sansa supposed everyone thought she planned on a baby, because wasn’t that what she should want? She didn’t know how it had happened. She remembered playing with her baby dolls as a girl: dressing them, rocking them, her mother showing her the right way to support a little head in the crook of her arm. How to burp them by patting them on the back ever so gently. How to sing them to sleep with a soft, soothing lullaby. Of course, the wet nurse would feed and change them if she wished, but Sansa always saw herself feeding her babies at her own breast. How she had dreamed of their soft cheeks and tiny fingers and even their cries. Of having a house full of happy, shouting children running all over the place…and worshipping her. She would knit them little booties and tunics and bonnets. She would play paddy-cake with them and bathe them next to a roaring fire. It brought a tear to her eye to think of those dreams, because now, suddenly the thought of bearing a child filled her with terror.

It wasn’t the pain…pain didn’t scare her anymore. Somehow, every time she thought of being a mother, she thought of her own mother Catlyn, at the wedding feast where she was murdered. Catlyn had watched her first-born child filled with arrows and stabbed. Watched him die. Before that she had got the news of her two youngest strung up and burned alive. Then one daughter went missing and another become a prisoner in a den of lions, to be wed to a vile craven who would likely rape and beat her every day. How could a mother hope for anything besides her son dying by the sword, with what the world had become? How could she hope that her daughter would marry anything but a monster, when monsters seemed to be everywhere?

Harrold was no Joffrey. He was mostly sweet to Sansa, and he was brave enough. But he had two baseborn children already before they had even gotten engaged, and Sansa now knew how that was possible. Harrold was utterly insatiable. It didn’t matter if he had been training all day, his muscles ablaze and his skin covered with bruises. It didn’t matter if he was too full from dinner or even if he was sick. He wanted her. Not just in their bed at night. He wanted her in the drawing room after everyone else had gone out. He wanted her at the dining table once the maids had cleared it. He even took her a couple of times outside in the garden, with the snow falling down and steam coming from between their legs when he finished. Sure, it was pleasant enough most of the time. But how could she not think his eyes wandered when she wasn’t there to slake his appetite? And what girl could refuse him…Sansa never found a way to.

She wondered what it had been like when her father had ridden into Winterfell with baby Jon Snow. Catlyn would never speak about it. But she never had anything nice to say to Jon or about him. Most of the time she hardly looked in his direction, and when she did it was with acidic scorn. One might say it was unkind, because it wasn’t Jon’s fault after all. But now Sansa understood.

Right on time, Harrold appeared in their chambers just after Sansa had finished tutoring Maddy on how to put sheets on the bed so that they stayed put. She had planned to change into her nightgown and give her hair a good brush, but her hair it seemed would have to wait.

“Darling…” Sansa said. “I hope Luthor wasn’t too hard on you today.”

Harrold was already circling her waist with his hands and nuzzling her neck. Sansa dutifully began to disrobe him, starting with his doublet, which was already half unlaced. Harrold kicked off his boots himself.

“The Others take Luthor. Mmmmmm…you smell so good my love…what is that you’re wearing?”

“Linen starch. And maybe some silver polish…”

Harrold moaned and pulled Sansa’s gown over her head. He kissed her hungrily and deep, and once she managed to unlace his breeches so that they fell down around his ankles, he lifted her up. Sansa was very practiced by now at putting her arms around his neck and leaping upward, like Arya used to do with the rope swing over the spring by the old Weirwood at home. Then she wrapped her legs around Harrold’s hips and held tight as Bran used to do when climbing up a pine trunk to get to the high window of a tower. Then, as Harrold entered her with a soft groan and brought her to the bed, she fixed her eyes on the way the fire made his skin glow golden brown. There was something about the fire that night, Sansa found. An ember beneath the flame looked to be shaped a little like a dog’s face. It wobbled and pulsed in the heat. _Funny_, she thought. Then suddenly there was an unfamiliar but marvelous heat between her legs. It spiraled and intensified and then traveled up to her belly all the way to her throat. Her legs vibrated and tingled and then turned to jelly. Then her breath became very short, and suddenly an explosion of pleasure made her cry out. Harrold hollered as he always did when he was finishing, but now her voice boomed along with his, and only when the feeling slowly subsided, and their yelling turned into exhausted panting, did they hear the shouting.

“_The_ _Gods save us he’s dead_,” Maddy’s screams echoed through the stairwell. “LORD ROBERT IS DEAD!”

[1] Martin, George R. R. _A Feast for Crows_. New York: Bantam, 2005.

[2] William Shakespeare’s Sonnet XXIII.

[3] DeVito, Danny. _Throw Momma From the Train. _Orion. 1987.

[4] Coppola, Francis Ford. _Bram Stoker’s Dracula_. Columbia Pictures, 1992.

[5] Benioff and Weiss. Game of Thrones. Season 7, Episode 2: “Stormborn.”

[6] Benioff and Weiss. _Game of Thrones_. Season 7, Episode 7: “The Dragon and the Wolf.”

[7] Green, David Gordon. _Pineapple Express_. Sony Pictures, 2008.

[8] Inspired by Toni Morrison’s _Beloved_.

[9] Friedkin, William. _The Exorcist_. Warner Bros., 1973.

[10] Benioff & Weiss. Game of Thrones. Season 4, Episode 4: “Oathkeeper.”


End file.
